Page 9 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

Today’s event is getting lots of coverage, I’m pleased to notice, which is what we need in order to rake in donations and sponsors.

Major backers are sluts for good press. Positive and supportive, that’s what they want to see.

Not the random digs and innuendo I can get when an article is about anything other than my performance on the mound.

There, I excel, and heaven help the dude with the balls to suggest otherwise.

Sports reporters, bloggers, and influencers alike all report on my generally aloof and occasionally surly attitude off the field.

Let’s face it, some of them come right out and call me a dick.

And I get it. I’m not concerned with being everyone’s friend or being accountable for anyone else’s well-being.

The safety and happiness of one person is my only job these days—well, that and the other one that provides the exceptional paycheck and keeps her in designer denim.

For years, I was the party guy, the one who didn’t only go along with a plan to close down a club and then invite multiple females back to the hotel—hell, it was probably my idea.

But that changed overnight when Hannah, mom of my then-tweenager, swerved to avoid an oncoming car in a busy intersection and ended up rolling hers.

I lost one of my best friends that day, and became solely responsible for her mini-me, all in the space of one idiot’s misjudged left turn.

Should I be grateful that the guy who caused the accident lived so Natalie doesn’t have to grow up thinking her mom was involved in someone else’s death?

I might be glad he survived, but not for that reason.

Nope, we sued the fuck out of him on Natalie’s behalf, and he was aware of every legal move we made.

Had to sign off on the judge’s final decree.

Truth be told, though, I’d rather my girl had her mom to fight with through her teenage years than a pile of cash socked away for her future.

I’ve never made it a secret that I have a daughter, or that Hannah and I were each on career paths we didn’t want to interrupt with marriage.

Crazily enough, we were both insanely excited about the baby, and since Hannah lived at home with her widowed mom while finishing school, Adele stepped up to help raise baby Nat.

She’s been a godsend for me since Hannah died, though she swears Natalie is no trouble at all.

I’m just waiting for Natalie to blast her with that aforementioned teenage angst. So far, she’s saving it all for me.

In the early days, and with my outrageous travel schedule during the season, nobody wondered at how little time I spent with Natalie.

Lately, she has a larger presence in my public life, and my social media.

I’ve been photographed with her over the years at team events or on vacation, and I’m okay with showing off my little princess sitting in the stands cheering me on, or during a fun day at Florida’s most popular theme park.

I do not allow her to be included in my endorsement deals, though, and it’s never okay to exploit her.

Don’t believe me? You can ask the former tabloid reporter who posted a shot of her with her friends at the beach last summer.

Also, when the fuck did she get that swim suit? My dad brain exploded at the realization that her body filled it out.

Not that I’d be caught dead with her at the mall—or the other way around, more likely—but the girl needs adult supervision when shopping for swim attire.

I can see the plus side to including her in today’s event.

She wasn’t happy about giving up her morning—downright snarly until I suggested a detour for her favorite cold brew on the way here—but she’s engaging with the younger kids as their parents round them up and lead them to the parking lot, and her help today took a load off the other volunteers.

When Evan Parker brought his girlfriend’s son by to meet some of the guys, he got a kick out of her squatting behind a makeshift home plate and letting him lob a few balls into her mitt.

I’ll add that to my report.

She notices me watching her and gives me a grin and a big wave. When she shouts, “Hi, Daddy!” across half the width of the outfield, I have to read her lips. The piped-in music and noise from the kids running around is so loud, and her voice doesn’t carry that far.

I wave back and her smile widens. Looks like I’ve been forgiven, and that’s good news. I’ll wait to remind her she’s also been called up for next month’s gala. Or maybe I can get someone else to take on that task for me.

I twist my wrist to check the time—I’ve spotted a few team members come from the locker room and they’re looking antsy to start pre-game warmups—then let my gaze sweep the area to confirm everything is going according to plan.

But of course it is. I pay an event company a boatload of money to make sure it does.

And to make sure there’s just enough press hanging around to give the day the exposure it deserves without whoring ourselves out.

Donors like to know their money is well-spent.

They do not like to be portrayed as pimps.

I’ve seen plenty of cameras out this morning—both professional and of the smartphone variety—and I’ve smiled for pictures with numerous fans.

It’s all part of today’s goals, offering the kids a safe place to play and increase their love of sports, and encourage attendance—and fandom—for the Terrors.

The parents of the camp kids are present, and helping as much as the event staff to make sure everything runs without a hitch.

Other kids are still laughing and playing at the various games, and for this one day, at least, I hope my Camp14 encourages them to feel as advantaged as any other child.

In a perfect world, this is what childhood looks like.

I find Natalie again, and watch as she helps one of the youngsters who trips as he runs across the grass. I’m proud and grateful that she can make him laugh even as she brushes grass and dirt off his knees.

She and I have had a long road learning to navigate our grief and live together—the past three years have been so much damn work—but she’s teaching me the role of full-time girl dad.

It’s a part I only filled sporadically in the past, and though I enjoyed it, it was always in a much more peripheral manner.

These days, I’m the parent , and it’s really not the same.

I’m not sure Adele always agrees with my child-rearing methods—because face it, sometimes my decisions are real meatballs—but she rarely calls me out.

Talk about calling me out . . . my eyes land on Ms. Sloan and come to a stuttering halt as she pulls the many wooden stakes from the ground one by one, and then wraps them with endless yards of brightly-colored flagging tape.

She cut right through whatever play I may have made in the bathroom on Tuesday night with her quirky charm and quick wit.

And the next morning, while I was still coming to grips with the idea that I may have gotten a kiss but not a phone number, there she was again, only to learn she’s the reason my week was about to go to shit.

My chest tightens in quick annoyance at the immediate reminder of who she is—the woman who involved my daughter in her bullshit accusation—and the reason she’s here, at my event.

I stomp closer to where she’s standing, irrationally irritated at both the recollection of our meeting with the headmaster, and the notion that the whole situation doesn’t seem to faze her at all. Who the fuck wants to spend their free time working someone else’s show?

Another woman I recognize as one of the camp moms is with her, and I come up to them as Palmer pulls her in for a hug.

“Thanks for stopping and letting me know, Kay. It was good to see you again. And I’ll be sure to pass the message to Dylan.”

Kay pulls away and turns to head in another direction. Palmer waves after her, but seems lost in thought. It’s a moment before she realizes I’m there, and faces me with a start.

“Did you come by to make sure I’m doing my part?”

I ignore her dig. “So, you decided to volunteer, too.”

“Something like that.” She gives me a Mona Lisa smile.

“I need to ask?—”

“Well, this is finished.” She spreads her arms wide, an impressive pile of stakes stacked neatly on the ground nearby.

“I can see that.”

I look up and away before I say something I’ll regret, and find Dylan and another boy in my line of sight.

He’s doing a fine job, and buddied up with another of the high school-age volunteers to work with the T-Ball kids.

We often get private school students who need community service hours . . . for other less altruistic purposes.

“I’m about to go help Dylan gather the balls over there,” she says, and turns away.

My hand snakes out to take hold of her forearm. Memories rush me. Soft skin. Tender touches. Her plush lips on mine.

“He’s fine, and probably wouldn’t love having his mommy hovering over him.” Her eyes stare down at my fingers wrapped around her lightly freckled skin. I let go. “Can you just hold on for one fucking minute?”

Her scowl doesn’t come immediately, but she works her way up to it.

“This better be important.”

“Jesus, woman, do you need to make everything hard?”

Her hard eyes flit to my crotch and fuck me . Apparently, she does.

Her eyebrows raise and her lips quirk. No anger rolling off her now. Nope. No annoyance, no testiness, nada. Palmer is amused .

I just met this woman. Do I know for a fact she won’t fault my daughter for getting in trouble with her son? I do not. Do I want to kiss her again?

Desperately.

I was on a heated tear as I stomped over here from across the field, but an essential tool in survival—both on and off the field—is knowing when to pivot. Overlook errors in judgment brought on by emotion. Ignore assumptions based on incomplete knowledge.